


that’s my girl.

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Bartender Reader, But You Ain’t Havin’ None Of That Shit, Escort Arthur, Escort Service, Except Arthur’s Got Eyes Only For You, F/M, Feelings, Jealous Arthur, Possessive Arthur, Smut, Stripper AU, escort service AU, strip club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You’ve been working as a bartender at van der Linde’s Ranch (escort service/strip club) since Dutch and Hosea opened the place-up five years ago.Though you see the escorts more like brothers than anything, there’s one escort in particular that you’d scraped your hands and knees for, but you shove those feelings down because you don’t want to lose his friendship over unrequited feelings.Because they are unrequited....Right?





	that’s my girl.

You’re like a daughter to Hosea and Dutch - meaning that the boys are more like brothers to you than anything.

 

Save for Arthur, whose relationship with you is something that’s equal-parts tantalizing, confusing and sexually-frustrating. 

 

Because there are days where you swear you feel those pair of gorgeous baby blues staring at you from his corner of the joint.

 

But then there are days where he hardly mumbles out more than a handful of words to you without so much as looking up from the wood of the bar counter. 

 

You as the bartender at Van Der Linde’s Ranch, because it is a men’s escort club after-all - would be a bit ridiculous to have any of those gorgeous Adonis’ trapped behind the bar counter. 

 

Besides, there are plenty of bisexual clientele who like spicing things up every once in a while, giving you gratuitous tips for brandishing a bit of skin or asking for a night of fun at the nearest hotel when it’s closing time (as long as Hosea and Dutch are nowhere in sight). 

 

Only, Arthur becomes  obsessed with you to the point where people are too scared to do more than ask for their drink and leave heftier tips than before, though you hadn’t done a single thing.

 

You thought it strange (and it stung like a son of a bitch, because your sex life hadn’t had a dry-spell for longer than a couple of weeks since Dutch and Hosea opened up the joint five years ago) but you shrugged it off easily enough.

 

The work was simple and the money was good. Looks like you’d have to look for that particular  extracurricular after-hours. 

 

Only...

 

There are a few things that are impossible to ignore.

 

The heated gazes you feel searing holes in the back of your skull when you’re chatting up a patron. 

 

The way Arthur’s started meandering off to the bar, as opposed to driving around in Boadicea for fresh air like he used to during his breaks, doesn’t leave you until Dutch or Hosea nudges him in the ribs about a client.

 

Those beautiful, crystalline eyes staring at your mouth, licking his own as you speak, as if he’s thinking of how they’d feel and what they’d taste like when he’s kissed all coherent thought out of your head—

 

No.

 

No, that last one was just a figment of your imagination.

 

...

 

Right?

 

•

 

Wrong. 

 

One night, when the joint closes, clientele clearing, the gang packing up to head out for the night, you and Arthur had gotten shitfaced at the bar, clinging to each other like your lives’ depended on it, laughing like the air was teeming with nitrous oxide, stumbling to the sanctuary of a private booth as opposed to the front door because he refused to let you drive home like this.

 

You’d never seen Arthur this plastered. 

 

Granted, you weren’t exactly sober either, but you had most of your wits about you, meaning that you’d be able to remember most of tonight. 

 

Especially when he’d begged you to let him give you a strip tease. 

 

“S’good for you, darlin’. Promise... I’ll make it  so good for you.” 

 

How could you have possibly refused a strip tease?

 

Especially when said strip tease was from the gorgeous specimen that was  Arthur Morgan?

 

Arthur takes you to his room - tucked away in the very back, secluded from the rest of the ranch, sound-proofed so nobody else can hear the noises he’ll be tearing out of you.

 

He wants every last inch of you to himself.

 

•

 

The minute that the ranch closes, that Hosea and Dutch retire upstairs for the night, that not a single member of the gang was left, Arthur hoists you to straddle his thigh, first, then drags you atop his cock to ride him - nice and proper - like a fucking stallion.

 

You don’t know when his self-deprecation melted away into a bold, brazen lothario, but you certainly aren’t complaining. 

 

Because you’d be lying if you said his dirty talk wasn’t one of the hottest fucking things you’ve heard in your life. 

 

“Whaddaya want, darlin’? My fingers? My mouth?”

 

“Want... Want both of them.  Always. But right now... Fuck, I need your cock, baby.”

 

Arthur groans, a dark, predatory noise that could’ve intimidated a bear, as he sinks his teeth into the skin of your neck and shoulder.

 

“Hafta have your cock inside me, Daddy. Need you to fuck me so hard, I’ll feel you in every step for days. Want you to breed me like a fuckin’ bitch in heat.”

 

“God, honey - that mouth o’ yours is gon’ kill me one o’ these days.”

 

“Look who’s talking.”

 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, but with a delicious grind of your hips, his eyes are rolling to the back of his skull. 

 

What was going to be a strip tease from Arthur evolves into a lap dance from you which inevitably ends-up in you two desperately grinding against each other like ravenous beasts in heat. 

 

“Sweetheart, I’m an addict and you are my fucking  drug.”

 

Arthur gets hard as a fucking diamond at these words, makes a noise deep in his chest that’s a mix of a growl and a groan. 

 

“I— I know I’m not allowed to touch, and if you don’t want me to, I completely understand, but can I— would it be okay if—  fuck, you’re beautiful.”

 

And  this has Arthur blushing from the base of his throat to the tips of his ears.

 

Because nearly every single one of his clients don’t mind that they aren’t allowed to touch because of the scars littering his body. 

 

But you? 

 

The fact that you don’t only want to touch him, but you  ask for permission?

 

He’s a goner.

 

Arthur knows this - he doesn’t claim to be the brightest bulb in the pack, but one thing he prides himself on is reading you like a book - and he eases the tension from your shoulders with large, broad hands massaging the knots from your shoulders, dropping kisses to the pale column of your throat that he salivates at the idea of marking-up with teeth, a visceral claim to this beautiful creature, his breath ghosting across your cheek, making you shiver.

 

His hands drop to your waist to hoist you into his lap, so that you’re straddling him. 

 

Arthur doesn’t bother hiding a wolfish grin when a shiver ripples down your spine as he rolls his hips up against yours.

 

You can’t help yourself. 

 

When your hands don’t move on Arthur’s body, he thinks it’s because you’re disgusted by his scars, and he’s about to yank his clothes back on, stalk out of the room, drink himself into oblivion for thinking that a beautiful thing like you would really want him.

 

But then— then your fingers are grazing against his skin, from the starbursts of gunshots to the explosions of shrapnel to the damaged tissue of knife wounds.

 

And you look absolutely  enamored.

 

When you realize you’ve been admiring the visceral, beautiful canvas of his skin, your cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink, about to pull your hands away, stammering out, “Fuck, I-I’m sorry— I didn’t mean— they don’t hurt d-do they—?”

 

But Arthur’s snatching your hands back, placing them on his chest and belly, dangerously close to his belt, moaning low in his throat as your nails come back up to gently rake through his chest hair.

 

“Feels like fucking heaven, baby girl.”

 

•

 

“Can I?” You ask, licking your lips, salivating at the prospect of what’s beneath his zipper.

 

But he eases your hands off, using the hold to pin them to the bed, where they wouldn’t be so deliciously distracting and mischievous.

 

“Next time, honey.“ 

 

You make a noise of protest in the back of your throat, because you’ve just had a taste of him— you want the whole fucking meal.

 

“Please, Arthur... Please. Have to touch you.”

 

Arthur can’t contain his groan - he’s so used to being the one in charge, his clients hiring him to strip and grind and pleasure them, so the fact that you’re straddling him, riding him, looking at him like he is the most beautiful thing that’s ever graced the face of the earth...

 

“Whatever you want, darlin’... Whatever you want.”

 

•

 

He’d forgotten what it felt like to have people touch his skin. 

 

No, that’s not right.

 

He’d never known what it felt like for people to touch his skin so intimately. 

 

Besides your friends, your family - who would ruffle his hair, hug him, clap him proudly on his shoulders or his back... 

 

That was about it.

 

But you? 

 

You can’t keep your hands off him. 

 

Whether your hands are braced against his chest, delicately but firmly mapping out the myriad of scars, clinging to his rippling arms with dainty fingers or cupping his bearded cheeks in your wondrously calloused palms...

 

Arthur can’t get enough. 

 

“You are so beautiful, Arthur...” you murmur against his throat, hot breath skating across his jugular, where he can feel your smile against his skin as a shiver unfurls down his spine, a groan spilling from his lips as you clench around his cock.

 

Simultaneously.

 

•

 

“You could do so much better than me, darlin’...”

 

“Don’t start that shit, Arthur.”

 

“You know it’s true, Buchanan.”

 

You don’t rise to the bait - instead, cup his face in one of your hands, thumb tracing along the curve of his bottom lip.

 

“What I know is that you blame yourself for things that aren’t your fault. What I know is that you’d die for our family before you’d let anything happen to them. What I know is that you have a heart of gold that’s barricaded behind a history of hell. But most of all... What I know is that you deserve so, so much better than the hand you’ve been dealt.”

 

Arthur has so many - too many - conflicting thoughts, feelings, voices raging through his skull from these words, but they all fade to white noise when you splay him across his bed, more tenderly than anything he’s felt in his 36-years on this earth, and kiss him full on the mouth.

 

It’s this single action - this one kiss - that has his inhibitions flying out the fucking window.

 

Because you taste, feel, sound so absolutely perfect.

 

•

 

“Can I... Can I bite you, baby?” 

 

Arthur swallows his groan at the thought, of someone wanting to leave behind evidence of their extracurricular activities, at the thought of your teeth sinking into his neck, his cock throbbing at the idea of you puncturing the skin and drawing blood.

 

“Yes...  Fuck, yes.”

 

Arthur‘s never experienced this before. 

 

He’s never had someone lave attention over his body, kissing his skin, tracing the hard lines of his scars with their tongue, leaving tiny nips at the jut of his hipbones, sucking bruises into the line of his V.

 

“Don’t... Don’t you want me to—“ Arthur’s sentence is cut off as you ease his boxers down, swipe your thumb along the slit of the head of his cock, smear the precum that’s beading there down his shaft, pump him slow, meticulous, thorough.

 

“Tonight’s all about you, gorgeous.”

 

Before Arthur can try and formulate any sort of response that wouldn’t make him sound like a lovestruck teenager, you take him into your mouth and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to buck-up into your delicious heat and howl.

 

He’s torn between the lust that’s pooling - hot and heavy and absolutely delicious - in the pit of his stomach, the base of his spine and the adoration that you’re doing this to him, for him, haven’t touched yourself once, are focused on his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

 

•

 

It isn’t until he’s brought you over the edge three times - once from the grinding, once from his fingers, once from his mouth - that you beg him to fuck you, to fill you up with his cock, to make you feel this for days afterward - that he frees himself of the confines of his boxers and nudges the head of his cock inside you, groaning at the delicious combination of your slick and heat.

 

•

 

One thing that Arthur Morgan has is stamina, meaning that he doesn’t stop until he wrings every last drop you can offer (i.e. four more orgasms) before you’re clenching around him one last time, choking out,  “Please, baby - please. Fill me up. To the fucking brim.” 

 

That’s when he spills inside you, a possessive groan rumbling in his chest, that you feel against yours.

 

Arthur, the gentleman that he is, ducks into the bathroom for a clean hand-towel soaked in cool water for your hot, sweat-slick skin.

 

Becomes absolute putty in your hands when you tug him into bed, where he promptly takes you into his arms, like he’s shielding you from anything and everything outside this room. 

 

Within minutes, the two of you are knocked-out cold in post-coital bliss.

 

But not without a tender kiss to your temple and a tender, quiet, “So good for me, darlin’...” in your ear.

 

You make a quiet noise at the praise - something between a hum and a moan - before you’re burrowing further into his chest, basking in his warmth, unaware of the tender smile that’s stolen his lips. 

 

•

 

When Arthur - slowly, carefully, thoroughly - unbuttons your shirt, the myriad of scars across your skin makes his jaw drop.

 

“A-Arthur, wait—“

 

He stops. 

 

Freezes like ice water’s been poured over his whole body. 

 

“Do you want me to stop?” Arthur asks, dead-serious, because he  needs your consent, he has to have confirmation, he won’t go any farther than this if you aren’t comfortable. 

 

“Yes— wait, I mean,  no— fuck,  you feel so good,  but— are you sure you’re sober enough that you won’t regret this in the morni—  ahhh,“ you hiss as Arthur’s hand slips down the front of your jeans.

 

“The only thing I regret is not doin’ this sooner. I’m as sober as a fuckin’ judge, angel. I want you.”

 

“Do you want this?”

 

“I... Fuck, yes I do... But... Are you sure  you do?”

 

“We... You don’t have to do this—“

 

Arthur crushes his mouth to yours so harshly that someone’s lip splits and blood fills both of your mouths, making you moan and him growl.

 

“This ain’t about what I have to do. This is what I wanna do. I wanna tear you apart and piece you back together, sweetheart. I want you to scream my name so loud, so much that you lose that lil’ voice. But most of all...”

 

“I. Want. You.”

 

This has you arms around his shoulders, grinding down against him, lips kissing each and every inch of skin you can reach.

 

The moan that drips from your plush lips has him groaning. Where he originally intended to take you at a slow, torturous pace, he loses all self-restraint and fucks you in earnest, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust.

 

“Such a gorgeous lil’ thing... Look at you... Takin’ my cock like it was made for you... You know that, don’t you?  You’re mine.”

 

He enunciates this point with a sharp thrust, which has you whining, “Yes, yes, yes!”

 

•

 

The next morning - the hands of the old-school clock by his bedside read 5:03 A.M., meaning you had a little less than four hours to drive back to your flat, take a shower, do and use anything and everything to hide the fact that you’d been good and thoroughly fucked - you try to sneak out as quietly as possible (something tells you that Arthur hasn’t had this much of a peaceful night’s sleep in weeks, months, years) but just as you’ve tugged on your clothes (wrinkled and disheveled to hell), tying-up your boots at the edge of the bed, looking around the scarce room for a pen and paper to leave a note that you’d be back in a few hours, a heavy arm coils around your waist, hoisting you into his lap, so that your legs straddle either side of his waist.

 

“You’re coming back,” Arthur says, voice rough, dark and fucked-out.

 

“O’ course,” you say, stifling a moan at the feeling of his hard cock against your thigh, dangerously close to your ass. 

 

“I-I’ll be here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a few hours, just need a shower and change of clothes—“

 

Arthur cants his hips up, grinding against you, growling deep in his throat. 

 

“That ain’t what I meant.”

 

One arm stays tethered around your waist, tightening to the point where you think your spine might crack, like he’s trying to meld your body into his, and tangled the fingers of his opposite hand in your hair, bringing your face so close to his that you’re sharing the same air.

 

“You’re coming back to me.”

 

You’re speechless, jaw slack, which Arthur uses as the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth.

 

“You’re mine,” Arthur growls between kisses.

 

“You belong to me,” he snarls into your throat, before his fangs sink into the vulnerable flesh so harshly that you feel the blood ooze out beneath his teeth.

 

“Fuck, yes .”

 

He can’t help the chuckle that cracks his bloodied lips apart.

 

He wasn’t asking. 

 

“Say it.”

 

“I’m yours... Fuck, Art...  I belong to you.”

 

These words have Arthur growling against your skin, tearing your clothes off, hoisting you into his lap so you could sink onto his leaking length, both of you moaning as he bottoms-out in your tight heat. 

 

“I ain’t lettin’ you go, baby girl.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you, gorgeous.” 


End file.
